Schools out for summer - A tribute to futilism

Morten Friis

Do you remember. Those days. Those days where our hopes swung themselves
high above love skies. Those days, where the delirious breath of freedom
always were breathing just around the corner. where the unbroken bow of
time stood, tightly trembling. Right ahead. I was training for the big
classics on the Valby Hill, hammering my elegant pedalbeat, around
Sondermarken, and into the hearts of millions of cycling-fans hearts. All
around the world. I practiced a unique style of walking. A unique
appearence in front of greasy mirrors in stuffed, suffocating boys
chambers. Provoced ejaculation, with a beforehand unseen frequency. And
sunday afternoon, the excursion went to the football grounds. Screaming my
lungs out for the KB. The Bad Boys of Copenhagen Football Glory.

Do you remember. The teen age years. We were dropping egg bombs ind Daells
Varehus, me, Carsten and Viggo.. We got caught. Cold as ice, we recieved
threaths of imprisonment. Standing there, we related to precicely that
situation. And as in every other situation, we were the hangmen, and they
were the victims.

Do you remember. Those days. Where the border between fiction and reality
melted into a delightful sigh. Out out the old schools windows, we hung.
Pithcing milkbottles at the passerby busses. Playing pool with the
dopepushers in Lille Colbjørnsensgade. Drinking supermarket-beers.

Do you remember. Those days. Where the schoolbell were sending its
liberating message across the thin worn asphalt of the scoolyard, flashing
up our hopes in a delirium of freedom. How hundreds of fragile legs with
wounded knees, as drumsticks on highstrung leather, were galloping out of
the School Gate. With our heads full of girls' smiles, ice cream cones og
smoking celluloid from wounded bycycle handles..Those days. Where the
schoolbags were ejected into the first, the very first ditch. And the
claustrofobic tyranni of the classroom finally. And forever. Had gone to
hell.

Our Master. Mister Hornsleth. Is the man, that has decided to place the
definitive og final megatonbomb under the prisonhouse of the standard
culture. It is the FUTILISM, that is the dynamite, the ignitor og the fuse.
At one and the same time. The FUTILISM will, with an earshattering BAAAANG,
destroy all isms og let millions of artist out on gods happy globe, in an
orgastic freedom HIGH. Never, ever, again will the brush be led by
conformity, never ever again will the stone be carved by traditionalism.
Freed from fear, the creatior will find his freedom in the futile. And here
he stand, with a clear and horizontal view. And every man. Every woman.
That will stand in our way. Will die. From the pain of our axes.

And this delirious cry. This cry will resound through the international
artworld. By the thought of this, the liberating scoolbell of futilism,
that now sounds across the clobe, we will rejoice. Schools out for summer.
Be a futilist.

The futilistic manifest has to be read with your ears in the machine. With
high hair og acking foreskin. With the dread locks in the mailbox. With
your feet planted deeply in the spinach. The futilistic manifest has to be
read upside down. From the back cover to the front. As an analfabeth within
art history, one has to place the readingglasses on the forehead. Set a
magnifying glass to one eye, a telescope to the other. Be absurd. Be a
futilist.

To levitate is to rise. By the force of spirit alone. The futilist places
an honour in being lost behind the truck. To slip in the mud. The worse
fear of the futilist is to be avant garde. An avant garde needs a derriere
garde and in the democratic point of view of the futilists, the ivory tower
is compressed to one storey. The heads of State of the Cultural Bourgeosie
will roll in the dirt with the lost, the worn og the outcasts of art. Hand
in hand. Singing 'we are the world'. Dancing extatic in circles, to the
beat of the futile. But only, in the aftermath of the hangover. To buy the
first ticket. To the new era. Of snowwhite, crystal clear og freezing cold,
uninfected meaning. What the hell is the point. Be a futilst.

Hit table with shoe
schools out for summer. Be a futilist
schools out for summer. Be a futilist
schools out for summer. Be a futilist.

Morten Friis, Danish journalist and writer based in Copenhagen

This text was published the first time in the book Fuck You Art Lovers Forever,
Kristian von Hornsleth, Futilistic Publishing, Copenhagen 2005.